


world behind and home ahead

by Shadowstar



Series: The Other Side of the Rainbow [7]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Derek Hale is Stiles Stilinski's Anchor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Goodbyes, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Not Really Goodbye, Pining, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9171886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: It's time for Stiles to go home; he's learned all he can from Zatanna. Which means it's time to say goodbyes, then say hello, and go right back to where he started.





	1. weep not for the memories

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a poem by J.R.R. Tolkien:  
> Home is behind, the world ahead,  
> And there are many paths to tread  
> Through shadows to the edge of night,  
> Until the stars are all alight.  
>  **Then world behind and home ahead,**  
>  We'll wander back to home and bed.  
> Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,  
> Away shall fade! Away shall fade!  
> Fire and lamp and meat and bread,  
> And then to bed! And then to bed!
> 
>  **Unbeta'd**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Sarah McLachlan's _I Will Remember You_ :  
> I will remember you  
> Will you remember me?  
> Don't let your life pass you by  
>  **Weep not for the memories**
> 
> I should probably also give a heads-up; I marked this part as being Clark/Stiles because of a kiss in this chapter. This is the only time that tag will ever pop up; Clark is too invested in his relationship with Lois, and Stiles too invested in Derek, for anything to happen there. Sorry if it's misleading!

Time ticks by like it always has, and always will. It moves forward with hardly anything to show for its passage; he gets a haircut, his power increases, he wins more than his fair share of games of war against Wynn, and he spends more and more time in the evenings on the roof, counting down the days with Superman. Nothing really changes at the DEO, either, as the time passes; missions are completed mostly successfully, threats to National City are subverted, Kara spends time with the still unconscious unknown supposed Kryptonian, and it all… Just holds an air of normality to it. Routine.

One that he doesn’t want to fall in for its meaning of permanence. 

At least, for the most part. Or not at all, not really, because there is always _something_ that shakes things up. In this case, it is Zatanna, and she is informing him that the complacency he has fallen into is over. His unintentional vacation has officially come to an end. 

“There’s not really anything else that I can teach you,” she tells him one afternoon, the two of them sitting side by side on the roof, watching the sunset paint the sky in vibrant hues of gold and pink and mauve.

“So, that’s it, then. The next portal I create will be the one that sends me home,” he breathes, saying the words slowly just to make sure they ring true. And they do, for all they hang in the air between them in an almost uncomfortable fashion.

Part of him has been looking forward to this day; it’s been almost a whole month since he began to learn how to create portals, but Zatanna had taken care not to let his jump in power go too quickly. She didn’t want to burn him from the inside out, she had said, something solemn and almost frightened as she relived the memories that caused that particular discussion. But if he is honest, and with at least her he has to be, he is grateful for the extra time that he has had to be able to build his power, to push into himself the discipline he knows he’ll need back in Beacon Hills.

“Yep,” she agrees, soft and sad, almost tired. “Basically, you get to choose the when, and we’ll go from there.”

Part of him wants to immediately jump to his feet, to declare that he wants to leave _now_. That he wants to take this power home, to stop wasting time and get back to what he was meant to be doing. The other part, the one that he has built and cultivated that has kept him alive through all of the _bullshit_ that Beacon Hills has thrown at them, tells him to slow down. To give it a day, maybe two.

Not so much because he needs the caution of building the portal; it’ll be hard, and he’ll definitely want to sleep for at least a day when he gets home, but thanks to the training that Zatanna has given him, he knows that he’ll be able to do it safely. No, this has more to do with all the people he wants to say goodbye to. The list isn’t long, not by any means, but it is meaningful. And he can’t just _go_ without saying goodbye.

“Alright. So. Two days; tomorrow, I’ll say goodbye to everyone and get my shit together. Then, maybe the night of the day after, I’ll create the portal and…Go home.” It’s such a weird thought, a weird phrase. He’s spent all this time preparing for it, but the words still feel strange on his tongue, dancing around in his head. Some part of him has always wondered if he _would_ make it home, and it almost doesn’t feel real that he’s finally managing to do it.

It probably won’t feel entirely real until he’s hugged his dad and fallen into his own bed.

“Alright. So, two days, then,” Zatanna agrees, and the way she says it, her tone and inflection, has him looking over at her. There is something distant in her face as she stares off at the horizon, untouchable and deep and more than a little scary. It reminds him that he’s been trained by one of the most powerful magick users in the whole of the DC comics continuity, a humbling thought that has him taking a deep breath and slinging a friendly arm around her shoulders.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve thanked you once for all of this,” he muses when she blinks at him in surprise. Her face brightens, softening into a broad grin, and she wraps both of her arms back around him, in return.

“You’re more than welcome, Stiles. If I’m honest, training you helped me, too.” The last is an admission he isn’t sure she meant for him to hear. Still, it’s curious that she would mention it. It has him blinking, giving her a squeeze.

“Yeah? How so?” He has to ask, has to, because he honestly can’t imagine what it was that _he_ taught _her_.

“You reminded me that there’s more out there than magic shows, that there’s more to my power than sparks and tricks. The world needs magick, needs the protection from it and by it, and that’s something that I forgot.” Her voice is honest in the cooling fall air, open and warm and confessing to him. It gives him pause, humbles him; she may be a powerful magick user, but she was _human_. And that was no small thing.

“I’m glad I could remind you that you’re just as much a hero as Kara or Superman,” he tells her solemnly, grateful all over again that it had been _her_ that Superman had thought to teach him.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked why you never call him Clark,” she muses, leaning against him more comfortably now, the shadows cast by the setting sun deepening further around them.

The answer to that, though, is actually fairly easy.

“That’s actually not that hard to answer: I only call Kara Supergirl when she’s not wearing the suit. I’ve only ever seen Superman in the suit, ergo…” He lets the words trail off, and she nods along to the information.

“Right, okay. That actually makes sense. I guess… It’s just weird to think of him as Superman, for me, sometimes. I met him just as he was starting to become a superhero, before Kara arrived. He was, more than anything, just a young man from a small Kansas farming community trying to be a reporter in the big city.” The reminiscing tone of her voice has him smiling, wondering what Superman— _Clark_ —would have been like. The only thing that comes to mind is the later seasons of Smallville, which. Okay, so, he might have skipped a lot of it since it had been, originally, something he started watching with his mom and…

There were a lot of things that stopped when his mom died. The only reason he knows what happened at the end of the series was because Scott had bugged him about it, one of the few things that they shared a passion over when it came to popular television.

A comfortable silence falls between them, then, as sunset gives way to dusk and then to proper evening, the cool air reminding him yet again of how much time has passed since he arrived here. Almost three months ago, now, he arrived in an alleyway while trying to escape from a monster that was possibly far more human than anything else that he’d ever faced. True, the monster had been given proper upgrades to truly _be_ a monster, but Donovan had been, if nothing else, _human_ at his core. Angry, selfish, lashing out in proper human fashion; it was almost fitting that he’d been given something extra to create a physical aspect to his very human beneath-the-skin ugliness.

And now he was going back to the place that creates people like that. But, if he’s learned anything in his time here, he knows that it’s not so much the place as it is the people. He hasn’t been exposed to anything like what he faces at home because he’s been protected, sheltered, basically through his entire stay here. More than anything, it really was like a vacation, even if he hadn’t been allowed to do any sightseeing. It’s something of a blessing, something that he is lucky to have had.

“You ready?” It takes him a moment to realize that Zatanna has moved away and is now standing near the door leading back into the building, having left him to stare into the distance, lost in his thoughts.

Her question is more than just about going in, though; at least, that’s the way it feels, given the place his thoughts had been in just a moment before. He takes a breath and stands, himself, smiling.

“Yeah, I think I am,” he answers, nodding his head as he follows her inside. He pauses only a moment to look back over the skyline, steeling himself to start to say goodbye. Then, with another breath of the sharp air high above a quieting city, he heads inside, taking the first step on what is likely to be a drawn-out process.

*=*-*=*

The next morning, he finds himself waking up in an odd sort of mood. Not quite excited, not quite worried or resigned. Somewhere between the three points, really; a triangle of mixed up feelings that twists up in his chest, breathtaking and almost making him want to curl back in on himself. He takes a long, long moment to simply lay in the dark of his borrowed quarters, quarters that will likely go to someone else once he’s gone. His finds his mind wandering down paths with no destination, his thoughts meandering and not particularly settling, nothing definite about any of them. Buzzing as background noise, but with nothing altogether tangible for now.

But it is only a long moment that he lays there, and soon he’s getting up to start his day. He showers out of habit, choosing to wear jeans and a t-shirt that appeared on the edge of the sink; more than likely they’re from Kara, but he didn’t hear the displacement of air nor did he feel a breeze, so he isn’t going to say anything next he sees her.

Especially when they’re disturbingly correct in size.

By the time he’s slipped into his Chucks, he isn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. It seems silly to go around saying goodbye to people right this second. Or, if he’s being honest with himself, he isn’t quite ready to actually make that leap. There is so much that he wants to say to all of the people who have become his friends, that he wants to just… get out in the air. But the thought of actually facing them feels almost as hard as facing down the darach, a crazed Alpha werewolf, and Kate all over again, all together and at once.

His wandering feet finally have him going to find Alex, and he finds her sitting at a table in the cantina, slowly drinking a cup of coffee, her dark eyes distant even as she stares at a wall, as though she’s not really seeing it. He hesitates a moment, but eventually gets himself a cup of coffee of his own and a Danish before sitting down to join her. She glances over from the wall only briefly, nodding at him in acknowledgement before returning her attention back to the report.

He sips at his coffee and eats the dannish slowly, watching Alex thoughtfully. Only to get lost in his own thoughts, really. He thinks about breakfasts and lunches and dinners that he’s missed with his friends, his dad. He thinks of all the food that he _knows_ he could have made _so_ much better. More than anything, though, he thinks of what it will be like to return to cafeteria food at school.

Alex’s chuckle draws him out of his thoughts and he blinks at her, breakfast pastry poised half-way between the plate and his mouth. He can’t help but frown when a bit of the filling falls out of the crust, causing the woman across from him to cough, hard, in order to try—and distinctly _fail_ —to hide her laughter.

“You look like the apple has committed some federal offense,” she tells him, and he sighs as he puts the pastry back onto the plate beside the fallen bit of apple.

“It kind of has. There’s little to no flavor in the filling, and the crust is soggy,” he tells her, waving his hands around carefully, trying really hard not to hit anyone passing by with his flailing. Plus, he’s learned from Zatanna the meaning and power behind a gesture; he would rather _not_ set someone on fire.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, though she sounds more amused than actually sorry. He can suddenly picture the kind of big sister she is; the kind who sympathizes even when she doesn’t understand, though she isn’t above teasing if she thinks it’s not really something that _really_ needs sympathy.

He can suddenly understand why Kara is the way she is.

“It’s definitely not your fault. I’m totally planning on stopping by the bakery on my way to school Thursday,” he explains with a shrug, only to pause. This is now the second time he’s said it; it isn’t any less surreal now than it was when he was talking to Zatanna. Maybe if he says it enough, it’ll actually _stick_.

“So… Zatanna gave the go ahead; you’re ready to go home, then,” Alex murmurs, low and thoughtful, after taking a moment to process the information. At least, that’s what he assumes she does; Alex has never been someone that he can actively read. He can pick up vague ideas though slight body gestures, but she is one of the most closed-off human beings he’s ever met. 

Not surprisingly, it makes him think of Derek. A _lot_ of things make him think about Derek, these days. He shuts down that line of thought before it can go down roads he desperately doesn’t want it to trvel.

“Yeah,” he agrees, unnecessarily but once again with the need to do so. Needs to get verbal agreement into the conversation, understanding settling between them openly.

Her smile is brief, sad, before she’s reaching over and pressing her hand against his forearm. Comforting, encouraging. Reminding him yet again just how Kara became such an amazing person, and—in turn—an amazing superhero. He doesn’t think the comics could have captured this woman across from him, or any of the other people who make up the peripheral of Kara’s life. They’re so, so important, but they get lost in the edges of the comic book panels and storyboard.

“Don’t sound too excited or anything,” she teases gently, giving his arm a squeeze. He finds himself sobering, nodding a little bit.

“Trust me. I’m excited; I’m ready to go home, to see my dad and Scott and everyone else. I just…” He doesn’t quite know how to put it into words, what he wants to say. That’s okay, though, because she understands, if her smile is anything to go by.

“It’s okay to miss people you may not see ever again, Stiles. It’s part of what growing up is about,” she tells him, warm and gentle and so very sisterly. He wants to move around to the other side of the table, to give her a tight hug, to tell her just how important he thinks she is to Kara and who she is.

More than anything, he wants to beg her not to change too much in the coming years.

“I know. I just… I didn’t think it was something that would actually happen, you know?” he sighs with a weak shrug of his shoulders, looking down into his food. “I never… I never thought I’d actually get the _chance_ to say goodbye.”

And that. That is the root of this issue; everyone who has ever… okay, he can’t just say ‘left’; that implies that they had a chance of coming back. And barring Derek, everyone else was _dead_ , and there really had been no chance to say goodbye. Regret is a nasty, insidious thing that he has a feeling he’s going to be living with for the rest of his life. That, and the guilt and nightmares caused by the nogitsune, but those… They were actually getting better. Had been, at least; he isn’t sure what returning to Beacon Hills will do to that particular growth and progress.

“Well, you do have the chance. And you never know; maybe it isn’t goodbye in the permanent sense,” she tells him, smiling encouragingly, looking briefly thoughtful. But it’s not the thoughtful of inner introspection. No, this thoughtful has him narrowing his eyes, wanting to demand just what was going through her head, what the implications of that particular look are. Because it does mean something, he just can’t quite parse what it is.

“You’re plotting something,” he eventually blurts out, accusingly with an equally accusing pointing finger that he levels at her chest.

And then, of course, she turns completely terrifying and gives him a smirk that is worthy of Lydia Martin.

“Now, if I admitted to that, it would be telling,” she tells him tauntingly, giving one last squeeze to his forearm before standing and walking away. All within the space of a few seconds, giving him no more time to question her.

“Enjoy your breakfast, Stiles,” she calls over her shoulder, and he scowls after her, curiosity piqued. But under the frustration, there’s something warm in his chest; warm and relieved.

Maybe she was right; maybe it wasn’t goodbye in the permanent sense.

*=*-*=*

After talking to Alex, it becomes a little easier. Easier to think in terms of going home, and of saying goodbye as just another step in a journey he’s taken to better himself. And that’s what this all has been; he’s made himself better, made the thing in his chest that sometimes wants to claw its way out and make him scream, far easier to handle.

He takes his time in wandering the base, looking out through the steel-framed windows over the city as the days continues on. It’s easy to pack all of the things that he’s gathered while here; they all fit neatly into an unremarkable black pack he gets from Wynn when he talks to the techie. It’s rather amazing how little he’s managed to make his own, here: a pair of sweats, a t-shirt, his few collected toiletries—toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash—, the vase that he’d shattered and put back together too many times to count while training his control, and the metal amalgam _thing_ that was vaguely purple and looked kind of like a sea urchin.

At the very least, it would make a good paperweight for his dad’s desk.

Surprisingly, even though he doesn’t have much, it still takes a while. Long enough that it’s early afternoon by the time he finally gets the courage to go seeking out the others. And it is courage, because despite his thoughts earlier that morning, he still hates the idea of saying goodbye. On the one hand, he’s grateful for the opportunity, but then.

Then he thinks of Derek, and the _lack_ of even a text in the months since the man left and he just. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, not like this.

But after searching from top to bottom, he finds himself utterly frustrated; he hasn’t caught sight of John, Helena, or even Courtney in any of their usual haunts. And not even in any of the unusual ones, either; they’re nowhere to be found. Finally, he gives up and tracks Alex down, frowning when he finds her with Hank, talking quietly about a mission or other.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Hank greets, giving a tilt of his head in greeting. It’s still weird to know that this, _this_ is the Martian Manhunter. But, he supposes there are worse things to know in the world.

“Uh, hey. Sorry to interrupt, just. I was just, uh. I was hoping that maybe you guys knew where Joh—ah, I mean Sergeant Stewart, Agent Bertinelli, and Agent Whitmore; I can’t find them. And I just. I wanted to say goodbye,” he tells the two, feeling flustered and decidedly out of his element once he’s done.

The two glance at each other, sharing silent communication but the slightly regretful look on Alex’s face says it all before either of them can say a word.

“I’m sorry, son; the three of them were sent on a mission this morning. They won’t be back for a while,” is what the director finally tells him, gentle as ever, hesitating a moment before pressing a hand to his shoulder. “If you’d like, you can leave notes for them. I’ll make sure the get them when they return.”

He swallows back his bitter disappointment, something heavy in the pit of his stomach as he waves it off.

“Nah, I just. Alright, I’ll just. Thanks.” He stumbles over his words more than he usually does, beating a hasty retreat, head bent under the weight of his disappointment.

*=*-*=*

After the disappointment of knowing he won’t get to say goodbye to the three doppelgangers, he finds it hard to motivate himself to go seeking out Laura. It’s been so much less painful interacting with her than the others; the only time he ever saw his Laura Hale was when he’d found her body, and that… That had not been pleasant. He much rather likes the living version.

It makes him think of Derek. Again. And it’s frustrating, because the man is more than a thousand miles away from him, now. More than _gone_ from his life, right this second, but always, _always_ , his thoughts come back to him. It brings him back to the conversation, the _yelling_ , he’d done with Kara that day he’d first woken up, how he’d tried to convince her, convince _himself_ that love wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. It was the only heavy conversation they ever had, beyond her talking about her insecurities, about how she felt like she wasn’t quite good enough to wear the El shield.

He finds himself sitting across from her, now, his chin resting on his arms, tired and sad and ready to just _go_. But Zatanna isn’t coming tonight, won’t be back until tomorrow, when she’ll be his support in making sure his portal doesn’t collapse on him and kill him by trapping him between worlds.

“It’ll be okay, Stiles,” she assures, even though she has no idea what’s got him down. It’s something that she does, all wrapped up in who she is. She is sunshine and hope, optimism and a ray of light in a long, dark night. Part of him hates her, right this second.

“Yeah,” he sighs, frowning, not looking into her blue-green eyes. Interchangeable, unearthly; he has looked, has thought about eyes amongst even his supernatural friends, and _none_ of them have eyes that could even compare with Kara or her cousin.

Not even Derek, and Derek’s eyes are just…

“You know, one of the things that I really like about Derek are his eyes. They’re not quite green, not quite brown, not quite blue. And they’re too much of each color to really call them _hazel_ ,” he finds his mouth telling Kara, the words spilling out of him. Word vomit, really, and it seems to surprise her. But she smiles, encouraging and excited.

“Yeah? You don’t… You don’t really talk about him,” she tells him, thoughtful and sad.

He wrinkles his nose at her, straightening. Feels that this conversation is about to get a whole lot heavier than it was before. Heavier than their conversations have been since that discussion in the infirmary.

“I don’t because, really, what’s the point?” he huffs, unable to stop himself. Unable to keep from pointing out the hopeless situation he _always_ finds himself in when talking about Derek; it’s hopeless to work himself up, to bring up all the feelings that make his stomach turn and his heart flutter and everything else that goes with pining and crushes and stupid _love_. 

Her brow furrows, the little scar—old, faded; probably been there for longer than she’s been on Earth—close to her left eyebrow crinkling with the expression. Then her expression turns thoughtful, though sad.

“You know… My mom and dad were never really romantic with each other. They loved each other, I know they did. But they were never like Aunt Lara and Uncle Jor-El. They never showed their affection so openly. I asked them, once, why they didn’t,” she tells him, leaning her arms on the table, making sure to look him straight in the eye as she speaks.

He blinks at her, curious, heart clenching in his chest as he thinks about what she’s saying; the _story_ he’s being given, that no one else has heard.

“What did they say was the reason?” he has to ask, voice soft, curious. Trying desperately not to push. But wanting, selfishly, to hear.

“My mother told me that it was because they both knew that they loved each other,” she says simply, her voice going soft and sad, her eyes going distant with memory. Remembering to a different time, a different _planet_ that no longer existed. Then her eyes go sharp, pinning him place. “She said that even though they both knew that they loved each other, that she sometimes wished they said it more often.”

“Why didn’t they?” he has to pry, has to know. His heart is in his throat, nearly chokes the words before they’re formed, and he can feel his chest squeeze tight in sympathy.

“They didn’t know how,” she breathes softly, reaching out and touching his arm. “They couldn’t break past the barrier. But, more than anything, talking about it? Talking about how you feel for someone, it’s _important_. Even if it _hurts_.”

He feels immeasurably guilty, just then. To know that she’s told him this, given him this small secret part of her past, to try and get him to talk about Derek. He just…

“I don’t know if I can,” he tells her, his voice little above a hoarse whisper. He sounds like he’s just woken again, like he’s swallowed glass and had sandpaper taken to his vocal cords. And it hurts just as much, to admit it like he does. “I don’t know if I can… If I can just _talk_ about it.”

He’s spent so long repressing, regretting, _pining from afar_ , that he doesn’t know quite how to put the words to the forefront. To talk about the little things, the little conversations he had with Derek, the way that the little smiles that he sometimes got the man to give were _everything_ to him.

“Practice makes perfect,” she tells him softly, suddenly beside him, and he doesn’t remember her moving. Doesn’t remember the feel of displaced air, or the sound of her flats on the floor, and he can’t really complain. Her arm is around his shoulders, and he leans into her, breathing in the sunshine and warmth that she’s offering him again. Taking the comfort she’s giving so freely, feeling like a thief and not able to really able to care about it.

So, he does. He opens his mouth and he talks.

And, even though she’s going to be taking him to where he’s making the portal, it feels like as much of a goodbye as he’s going to be able to give her.

*=*-*=*

The afternoon drags on into evening, and like almost every evening he’s been here, he finds himself on the roof at the end of the day. The sun has long since set, and the lights below are almost like stars on the sea, peaceful and distant. It’s soothing, and it helps coat over the raw edges that are left from talking to Kara. He’d spent hours talking, and not just about Derek. He’d found himself telling her about his own mother. They’d shared stories, shared tears and laughter, and while he still feels raw and bruised, he feels… _peaceful_. More than he has in a long, long time. It can really only get better with the appearance of the next person he’s going to say goodbye to.

“You know, I would almost think you’re trying to draw attention to yourself,” Superman teases as he touches down beside where he’s sitting against one of the vents, relaxing against the cool metal comfortably.

“Just yours, but it’s not like I really have to try for that,” he teases back, grinning at the Man of Steel. It’s weird to think of the man as his friend, but he _is_. And it’s kind of sweet, the determined way he hasn’t been left alone. Almost every time he comes up here, Superman will appear shortly afterwards, either silently sitting with him, or—as they are now—exchanging snark and conversation.

“I would hope that I don’t have to remind you that I’m a taken man,” Superman muses dryly, eyebrows arched in amusement.

The comment has him jerking in surprise, a laugh punching out of him.

“Why, Superman; if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were _flirting_ with me,” he splutters, gaping at the man who looks so, _so_ much like Derek. But the warm laughter, like sunshine and warmth and everything good in the world, is evidence enough that he _isn’t_.

“Maybe,” the man admits reluctantly with a shrug, before dropping to sit on the vent, thigh pressing warmly against his shoulder.

They sit in comfortable silence for a long, long time. It’s warm and companionable, and one of the many reasons why he _doesn’t_ want to leave. But while he doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to give up this virtual vacation, he wants to see his dad, wants to see Scott, wants… well. One thing at a time.

“You’re leaving tomorrow. You ready to go home?” Superman asks, breaking through his quickly spiraling thoughts. Thoughts that were headed some place sad, and for a moment he suspects that the man may have a supersniffer or something, but when he looks up at Superman’s face, the man is staring towards the hazy horizon where the sun had set hours ago.

“Yes and no,” he admits with a sigh. “I mean… I’ve made friends here. And I know things that could keep you guys safe. But…” He trails off, struggling to find the adequate words to explain his feelings.

“But there are people that you miss, and things you have to get done,” Superman fills in, shifting to press a warm palm against the curve of his shoulder. The hand is powerful, and bizarrely enough he can actually _sense_ the power there. It’s more than just the power of someone who’s trained, and it’s definitely not magickal in origin. Instead, it reminds him of sunshine and sunflowers and wide-open Kansas fields beneath a bright blue sky and a blazing summer sun.

It’s the power of Earth’s yellow sun, personified, and it is _humbling_ to know the man beneath that power.

“Yeah,” he agrees, having let the silence carry for a moment too long. “I miss my dad, and Scott. And I’m scared to think what’s happened to Beacon Hills since I’ve been gone.” The admission is something that he’s been trying, rather desperately not to think about. Because he can only _imagine_ how bad it’s been. But he trusts his friends, their strength, not to have let the town get destroyed in his absence.

There’s a far more insidious voice, one that sounds scarily like Theo’s, that mutters in the back of his mind that maybe he hadn’t been missed _at all_.

“I’m sure nothing bad has happened,” Superman tells him, echoing his thoughts but with a surety that he can’t quite muster.

“Yeah, well. I wish I had your confidence,” he sighs, pessimistic and letting reality settle back into his bones. Something bad was just starting to manifest when he accidentally wished himself away.

“You’ll just have to trust that your friends were able to hold down the fort while you were gone.” Never let it be said that, no matter the incarnation, Superman was _never_ optimistic. The big blue Boy Scout could be annoying about it, but right now… Right now it was actually appreciated.

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I will,” he agrees with a sigh, trying to let the tension of the thought go. He finds himself shifting to lean his head against Superman’s knee, letting his eyes fall closed as he listens to the distant sounds of National City echoing from far below them.

It’s almost comfortable, becomes even more so when he feels thick, blunt fingers pushing through his hair. For just a moment, he lets himself imagine; with his eyes closed, it’s easy to imagine that he’s sitting on the ground outside a newly rebuilt Hale house, and that it’s Derek whose warm fingers are carding through his hair. After spending part of his afternoon talking about him, it’s easy, but it _hurts_.

It’s a beautiful dream, one that drifts off like dandelions on a breeze, his eyes opening slowly to the dark roof of the DEO building.

“You’re lost in your thoughts again,” Superman murmurs, voice a dark rumble from above him. Comfortable, but edging in sadness.

“Yeah,” he agrees on a sigh, sad and letting the dream fade a little bit more.

“You’re thinking of my doppelganger.” It isn’t a question, isn’t something that warrants a response in return, but he knows that he owes it to Superman to at least try.

“Yeah. He… I’m just…” Except he can’t even figure out the words again. Can’t seem to let his tongue wrap around them, let them form. Even when he’s spent so long talking about it, it was almost easier to talk about _this_ with Kara, rather than her cousin. He’s so much more intimidating, so much brighter, so much more _human_ than she is at times. It ties his tongue, lodges the words in his vocal cords, and leaves him unable to do anything but swallow thickly.

The fingers pressing against his scalp pause for a moment and he can’t help the undignified squawk that escapes him when Superman stands abruptly. He flails, unbalanced, before he manages to blink up at the taller man. Superman is offering him a hand up to his feet, his face solemn and jaw set, and it’s almost _heartbreaking_ that he recognizes that face.

It’s the expression that he remembers seeing on Derek’s face just outside La Iglesia, the one that said this was the end and no matter what, it _had_ to be okay. It had been just after sunrise, and Derek had been dressed again, and he’d _smiled_ before turning away, and—

Superman’s palm is warm against his cheek, his calloused thumb gentle as it wipes away moisture that has fallen without his knowledge or permission. The taller man’s holding onto him, now, his changeable eyes—hazel, and far bluer with the suit—sad.

“Stiles,” Superman calls to him softly, trying to break through his memories and thoughts, trying to dig through to the center of him.

He finds himself licking his lips, studying the smooth face before him, _wondering_.

“I think…” He clears his throat, tries again, but can’t seem to cease the lack of volume in his voice or stop the shakiness, even while he’s firm as he speaks. “I’m going to kiss you and I’m sorry.”

There are raised eyebrows again, and it looks like Superman might open his mouth to say something, possibly to protest, but he’s pressing forward, both of his hands framing that almost familiar beautiful face, and then—

Oh. Okay, yeah. _Wow_.

The only thing that he can really get from it—besides the fact that, holy _fucking shit,_ Superman can _fucking kiss_ , Jesus Christ on a cracker—is that this must be what sunshine tastes like. It’s warm and sweet, and _really_ hot. Not even in a sexual context; the man is clearly sunshine personified. And, okay maybe there is a bit of _that_ heat, too. Their lips move together, dry and gentle, but almost like they’ve practiced this and not like this is the first time they’ve ever kissed. It’s chaste, but that doesn’t stop it from blazing like a million suns.

It’s brief, too. There and gone again a moment later, and Superman is gentle when he disentangles himself, big warm hands pressed against his shoulders, gently holding him.

There’s a long moment of silence, the two of them eying the space between them that is a _lot_ less space-y than it was a moment ago. But there’s something almost mischievous in Superman’s eyes, an honest-to-god _sparkle_ that has him worried for his sanity.

“So? Everything you hope it would be?” Superman teases, warm and gentle and making him laugh.

Really, truly laugh. Laugh like he hasn’t in two years, back when things were simple and his top worry was beating Scott’s score on Halo. Before werewolves and kanimas and darachs and so much death that tainted the very air with its bitterness. It’s painful, and he knows he’s probably crying again, if the sad kicked-puppy look on Superman’s face is any indication.

And if he wants any more of a show that Derek and Superman are most definitely two different people, that would be it.

“I hate to break it to you, man, but that was… It kind of sucked,” he tells Superman, aiming for the low blow. There is a brief pause as Superman eyes him, and then there is a scowl, and he’s laughing again.

“See if I do _anything_ nice for you, ever again,” Superman grouses, drawing him under a large arm in a headlock and only just holding the Kryptonian speed and strength in check to give him the noogy that ends all noogies.

He flails and yelps and demands to be let go, and Superman refuses to with taunting words and good humor; the storm has passed. As with Kara, it’s another goodbye. And it’s okay.

Or, at the least, it will be.

*=*-*=*

He doesn’t realize he hasn’t said goodbye to Laura until the afternoon of the next day. And when he does realize, he isn’t sure what to do about it. He remembers a few weeks ago, of an argument and her insistence of him going back alone. He wonders, though, if that’s changed. Because he hasn’t really seen her since, and he isn’t sure how to approach the issue. All he can do, though, is to find out. So he makes his way down to the infirmary, just as she’s coming on duty. She looks tired, frowning and drawn in a way he hasn’t ever seen her.

“Our other guest is causing some issues with our equipment,” she explains, motioning to the unknown Kryptonian. Only, he doesn’t think the guy is actually Kryptonian, but he can’t quite place him, either. Otherwise he would tell the others, would help with that particular mystery before he leaves; give that one final gift. But, unfortunately, he can’t.

“Damn. I’m sorry,” he offers up by way of sympathy, earning an amused grunt as she steers him out into the hall, linking her arm with his. She doesn’t stop, though; just leads him on down the hall, heading towards the cantina.

“So, I hear that you’re heading home tonight,” she declares, stating it like a fact.

“Yep. I was actually coming down to… say goodbye,” he admits, pulling her to a stop before they can actually get to the cantina itself, drawing her into a side hallway. Doesn’t want what could possibly devolve into tears to be public. Mostly, too, he just hopes that he doesn’t get snot all over her scrubs.

“Good. I was worried I was going to have to kick your ass for even _thinking_ about not telling me,” she informs him, though there’s no bite behind the words. Nothing but honest sadness; reluctance to see him go. It confirms, though, that her mind has changed. And while he’s relieved that she isn’t going, it does bring its own sadness with it. It warms the knot in his chest, though, that has been there since his discussion with Kara, and that had only gotten bigger after… _talking_ with Superman.

Right. Talking. That’s all they did. Because there is _no fucking way_ he is ever going to be able to say, out loud, that he got to kiss the Man of Steel and have anyone believe him. Even if it does make him feel kind of like a giddy kid who got everything they could ever want for the next three Christamses.

“Nope, no bodily harm necessary,” he quickly assures, stuffing his hands into the jeans that he’d arrived in. They’re clean, now; the only part of his outfit that’s different is his shirt. There’d been a nasty hole where Donovan’s teeth had gone through both his flannel and t-shirt beneath it, not to mention that it had been cut away to be able to treat the wound in the first place. So he was now wearing a green shirt similar to the blue one he’d had, courtesy of Alex and Kara who both had grinned _evilly_ at him.

He doesn’t want to know. He _doesn’t_ want to _know_.

“We’re going to miss you around here,” Laura sighs, bringing him out of his thoughts on his shirt.

“I’m definitely going to miss you guys. It’s… I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m ready to go, just…” He trails off with a soft sigh; he was feeling a strong sense of de ja vu with the words, with the way this conversation is going. He’s just most definitely _not_ going to kiss Laura at the end of it.

“Yeah. No, I get it. It’s that whole vacation syndrome, or whatever it’s called. You’re feeling all depressed knowing you’re going to have to go back to the real world, and leave all your new friends behind,” she muses in turn, nudging at him with her shoulder. It’s a little harder than necessary, but he doesn’t do more than stumble a step before he’s nudging right back at her.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m awesome, and you’re all going to perish without me here,” he teases, warm and sad all at the same time. Especially with the way her hazel eyes go sad.

“I just don’t want _you_ to perish,” she tells him, and suddenly he’s being hugged tight. The strength behind it is surprising, but then he thinks of Melissa McCall and doesn’t have to wonder. It’s a nurse thing, he thinks; something about the work that nurses do that make them stronger than normal human beings. It’d be slightly more terrifying if he didn’t know one like his own mother.

“I won’t,” he promises, with a surety that he doesn’t quite feel. But there is a conviction there; a promise to at least _try_ not to get himself killed in the process of cleaning up the mess that is Beacon Hills.

“You can’t really promise that. Even if the bullshit you’ve told me about doesn’t get you, you could still step off the curb and get hit by a car.” And, yeah, okay. That was a valid point.

“But I’m going to try really, really hard not to let that happen,” he huffs at her, like that’ll make a difference in the hold she has around his ribs. He returns the favor by giving her a warm, tight squeeze, tucking her close.

“You’ll do just fine, Stiles,” she sighs into him, warm and sure, but not letting him go.

“You, too, Laura. It’ll all be okay.” And he feels as sure as his words, this time. Feels into the very core of him, the spark of magick beneath his skin holding a promise for the future he can’t quite touch. And that’s okay; more than anything, he just wants her to be safe and happy and whole, and he knows that whatever it is that’s giving him the information, that is what she will be.

This is the last goodbye, he knows, and he’s reluctant to let her go. But it’s warm, and it’s okay, and then it’s time to go.

*=*-*=*

The darkness in the alleyway is almost a physical thing as he moves through the alleyway. It had been discussed, previously, and he and Zatanna had agreed that it would be easier—power-wise, at least—to create the portal where one had been created previously. Still, he doesn’t remember it being _quite_ this dark when he first arrived in Metropolis. He’d be more freaked out if he didn’t have Supergirl and Zatanna on either side of him, Superman a vague shadow in front of him, the sound of their shoes echoing up around them in the dark.

“I think this is where we were when I found Stiles,” Superman informs the other two, coming to a halt. Supergirl’s hand on his arm has him stopping before he walks right into the wall that is her cousin, grateful for her grounding presence.

No one says anything as Superman steps aside, as he steps forward. This will be the hardest portal he’s created yet, he knows. But he can do this, he knows he can. Zatanna will be there to support him, he knows, just like Superman and Supergirl.

So he takes a breath, closes his eyes, and concentrates.


	2. no longer the lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Breaking Benjamin's _Give Me a Sign_ :  
>  **No longer the lost**  
>  No longer the same   
> And I can see you starting to break   
> I'll keep you alive   
> If you show me the way   
> Forever - and ever   
> the scars will remain   
> I'm falling apart   
> Leave me here forever in the dark
> 
> Also, some of the dialogue was taken from the episode directly. So, warnings for Donovan being an absolute asshole, which includes but is not limited to ableist language and homophobic language.

The last thing he expects stepping through the portal is to find himself at his school again. It’s dark, which makes sense; it had been dark on the other side, too. But, again: Why the school? He’d been concentrating on _home_ , on his house and his room and his bed.

He glances up and down the hall in confusion, adjusting the backpack on his shoulder, straining. After a moment, he freezes, because just behind him, down the hall, is the sound of doors banging open. His heart rate picks up as the footsteps echo, heavy and headed his way with intent. The only thing he can think of, right now, is Donovan. Donovan, who had been intent on killing him, on using his pain and suffering and more than likely _death_ to get to his dad.

Heart in his throat, he runs. He turns away from the footsteps behind him, spinning on his heel.

“Right back to it,” he mutters to himself as he skids around a corner. He’s not as afraid as he was, though. Oh, he was _definitely_ afraid, no question about that. But what he was _doing_ about it, what he _could_ do about it, was far different than where he’d been two months ago. Still, the hallway was no place to make a stand.

He has to pause a moment when he comes to the end of a hallway, though; there are three ways out of it: into a classroom, left up a stairwell, and right out onto the quad, across which he could conceivably get to the library. Split second, and he’s moving again, pushing through the door and rushing across the quad. He doesn’t pause, can’t stop to think too much or he knows that he’s going to freak out. When he gets to the doors to the library, he skids back to stop, reaching out and tugging at them, pulling at them uselessly.

For just a second, he panics. If he can’t get into those doors, into the library, he’s going to be a sitting duck. He’s going to get eaten, torn to pieces, left for his father to find; it would _kill_ his dad when they found his body. It would probably hurt Scott; he hopes that his best friend would say something good. He just wished that he hadn’t been gone for two months for this, left his dad and the others looking for him, only to reappear and be _dead_.

But one deep breath, then another, and the panic settles in his chest. He holds his palm flat out towards the doors, concentrating. Pulling up what little energy he has left, being careful with it, forming the intent in his mind.

“Nepo,” he commands the doors. They don’t burst from their hinges, don’t even really _creak_ open. Instead, there’s the sound of the electronic lock opening and the door opens under his grasping hands a moment later.

He rushes inside, looking around quickly, trying to figure out a place to hide. It seems almost silly to duck into the stacks, hunching down as if that would make him a smaller target. But that’s exactly what he does, calming his breathing almost through sheer force of will. Closing his eyes and remembering the concentration exercises that Zatanna taught him helped, too, but it was mostly making his heart go steady, his breathing become even, that kept him steady.

It was barely moments after he’d managed to get himself under control that the doors were opening again. He listens, closely, trying to get a sense for who it was. Trying to figure out what was going on, why he’d been chased.

The sound of a cellphone vibrating echoes through the dark library, and automatically his hands go to his pockets. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had his cell; it hadn’t been amongst the things returned to him when he’d been gathering them to leave.

Hell, had that been just yesterday?

“It’s Malia,” comes a voice, and everything freezes; his heart, his lungs, his whole _body_. It just. Freezes. Because, because that’s _Donovan_ , what the fucking _hell_. “Should I text her back?”

He’s completely confused by the time the young man asks him this, leaning against the shelves, trying to wrap his mind around what’s going on. He remembers, of course; he remembers running. He remembers coming around a corner just inside the high school, and then ending up in the back alley somewhere in Metropolis, collapsing into Superman. Starting a two month process of training, of honing himself. Healing, learning, picking himself back up. And yet, here he was, back at the fucking _beginning._

But it’s not. It’s not the beginning; he’d opened that door with magick. He’d commanded it to open, and it _had_ , and it wasn’t the beginning. He wasn’t the same Stiles that Donovan had started out chasing. Not even close. The wound on his shoulder has long since scarred, though the tissue sometimes itches. It isn’t the only wound that he’s healed, though.

Apparently, his not answering gives Donovan license to continue to monologue, even as the sound of him rejecting the call fills the silence.

“You don’t really know who I am, do you, Stiles?” The question is rhetorical. He knows it is, so he continues to listen where he’s hiding. His brow furrows in concentration, trying to dredge up _something_ in the way of energy. But he’d been running dangerously low when he’d opened the library; there was a good chance that the next thing he did could have him passing out. And with it being Donovan, he has _no_ idea if what he could do could _possibly_ be enough.

“Maybe you, uh, heard about my father? Did your dad tell you about him?” The questions continue as he tries to come up with a plan, only half-listening to the deranged young man—Chimera? Was Donovan a Chimera? Weird to think Scott had only just coined the term before… _this_ —as he tries to figure out a way out of it.

“Did Sheriff Stilinski ever tell you about the time he was still deputy and how his partner got caught in a shoot-out? Did he tell you a bullet shattered my dad’s T-9 vertebra? Went right through is spinal cord; you know what that means? It means everything below his waist is useless. And not just his legs. He probably told you some of it…” There is anger under the words that has him paying attention, now. Paying attention to the underlying message, the context of blame that Donovan has laid out even before he continues, “but I bet he probably left out the part where he was sitting in a car calling for backup while _my_ dad was going in alone.”

There is something in his chest that is starting to bubble up, a warning. A reaction to the words that continued to spew, vile and hateful, from the angry young man who, at this point, is doing little else but rave about a slight that was imagined. Because of course he remembers the incident; remembers how his parents had retreated for several hours, his mother trying to console his father, who was nearly beyond grief at that point. Who felt guilty, heart-heavy, for not being able to help his partner more than he had managed to.

The anger, at least, is lending fuel to the fire that he’d thought wouldn’t be stoked, at this point, without the possibility of his losing consciousness. Of course Donovan isn’t done with his tirade, though.

“Did he tell you that he was too scared, too much of a frightened little _bitch_ to go in after him? Or do scared little bitches not tell their little bitch sons about their failures? About how they put they put their partner in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.” And if he hadn’t been sure before, he was definitely sure now; Donovan was several items short of a happy meal. He was so _angry_ , so hateful, and he can feel his own anger rising to meet it.

But then there is the sound of the electronic lock on the library doors, and a familiar voice is echoing through the library, one that has him freezing all over again. Because it is another voice he hadn’t thought he’d hear again, one he’d said goodbye to yesterday, last year, _something_ , his mind is a jumble as he listens.

“You know, I don’t think calling him—what did you call him? A little bitch? Right, I don’t think calling Stiles a little bitch, or referring to his _father_ as such is likely to have him come out. Just saying.” Taking a chance, he peaks around the edge of the shelf and it’s like today can’t get any more confusing or surprising. Because there he is, dressed in a checkered shirt, fidgeting with his glasses: Clark Kent, with Superman’s cold stare and posture. But even more surprising is just beyond him; Kara, Zatanna, Courtney, John, and Helena, all five flanking the civilian-clad Man of Steel, none of them looking particularly happy from what little he can make out in the shadows of the dark library.

“Who the fuck are all of you?” Donovan sneers, hunching, tensing. Clearly not having _any fucking clue_ just who he’s standing up against.

“Well, see, that’s the _thing_ ,” Clark starts, removing his glasses, pushing a hand through his hair. Slicking it back, making it curl in that oh-so-familiar way. _Showoff_. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but most of them Stiles tells me are fictitious. Geeked out, I believe Wynn called it.” The light fabric of the man’s shirt stretches as he shrugs, almost _obscene_ when he crosses his arms across his chest. “Mostly, though, you can just call me Clark.”

Donovan’s laugh is mocking, sharp and loud in the close darkness. It’s more than enough to hide his squeak when he feels a strong, small hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady when he whips around to see Laura at his shoulder, her sharp face solemn as she, too, watches the tableau unfold further in front of them.

“You’re going to regret following your little ass-eating boyfriend in here,” Donovan informs Clark, and there are _multiple_ cringes, he just knows it, and they aren’t all just from him and Laura.

“That implies that my relationship with Stiles is anything more than what it is: we’re friends,” Clark replies, easy and relaxed, but his eyes. Oh, fuck, his _eyes_ are starting to literally _burn_ the white-blue of building heat vision.

Before he can do anything to stop Clark from burning down his school’s library, Kara is stepping up beside her cousin, pressing her hand to his broad shoulder. Calming him, for all that she looks _just_ as furious.

“Wait, _you’re_ Donovan?” Kara asks, curious and bright. Smart; putting the pieces together, and he can’t help the small grin that he sports. Weak, sure, but grateful that _someone else_ is at least aware of the whole _weird_ factor in all this. “You know, Stiles was scared of you; the way he described you, I thought you would have been _taller_.”

“It’s the teeth,” he can’t help but call, stifling his yelp when Laura _pinches him_ , of all things. Her glare is worse. “The ones that are in his hand, and in his mouth. It’s the whole… Chimera thing.”

“He doesn’t look like a Greek monster,” Helena muses, her movements hidden in the darkness. Even with the bright moon, and the lights outside, showing through the skylight, most of the main floor is still in shadow. Of _course_ the woman who would be—or _is_ ; he still isn’t wholly clear on that—Huntress finds them easily.

“It’s a whole thing of combining DNA,” he offers from the shadows, still not emerging from his hiding spot. Even though it looks Donovan may have pinpointed where he is, he isn’t going to come out until he’s sure that the deranged young man is contained.

“How about—urk!” Donovan had probably been about to say something cheesy and cliché and horrible, something along the lines of giving a demonstration. But, apparently, Clark had had enough and had moved in a blink, pinning the chimera easily against the ground. No matter how much Donovan struggles, there’s no way he’s getting out of the hold that Clark has him in.

He takes that as his que to move, coming from around the shelves, earning a bright smile from Kara that is in parts relieved and smug, both, beneath the usual sunshine she _literally_ exudes.

“What are you all _doing_ here?” He has to ask, has to know. The look he gets, like he should probably rethink his IQ score if he _has_ to ask that question, is unanimous from all of them. Zatanna, though, seems to at least understand what he meant by the question.

“When you went through the portal, I kept it open until all of us were through. When we’re satisfied that you’re not going to get yourself killed, we’ll go back,” Zatanna says simply, as though it really _is_ that easy.

To her, it probably is.

“You… you’re all—“ How does he explain? John seems to get it, though, his face solemn as he glances at the other doppelgangers. Helena is the next to get it.

“We’ll be fine, here; we’re just worried about you, Stiles,” she explains, rolling her shoulders in an easy shrug.

“Maybe you could go ahead and call your dad to come get this guy?” Clark suggests with a sigh, looking mildly annoyed when Donovan actually manages to get a kick in, only to start screaming when, apparently, he only manages to break… his toe? Foot? Who knows.

“Right. Right, he has my ph—wow. Okay, thanks.” He hadn’t even gotten the comment out before Kara is there in front of him with it held in her hand, offering it to him. The move that has caused Donovan to go utterly, completely still.

“What the hell are you guys?” the question is shaky, wavering, clearly freaked out now.

“We’re the good guys,” is what Kara tells him, patting Donovan none-too-gently on the back of the head while he dials.

He calls his dad’s line directly, knowing that there was no way he’d be able to explain this to dispatch. It was going to be really, really hard to explain this to his dad, to begin with.

“Hey, dad, so uh—“ he starts when Dad picks up the phone, only to break off at the long-suffering sigh he gets in return.

“What did you do now, Stiles?” comes the tired reply on the other end, worried and at the end of his rope. Probably with good reason, at this point, given everything that’s happened. The tone has him cringing in return, swallowing, glancing around the anxious faces of his new friends.

“Uh, well, Dad. I…” He doesn’t know where to start. Doesn’t know how to start to begin to explain this, how a _time jump_ and _magick_ were apparently two things that he could do now. “So, you should probably send Parrish and several other officers to the school. To the library. And then you should probably meet us—me, meet _me_ at home so I can, er. I have some things that I have to tell you. Show you, really, it’d be easier to _show_ rather than _tell_ —“

“ _Stiles_ , okay. Calm down, son,” his father’s voice breaks through, more alert than it had been a moment ago. “Is this… Is this a _thing_?”

The question is a valid one. And, yeah. It’s a _thing_ , alright, just probably not the one that his dad is thinking of. A helpless sort of laugh escapes him, and he is rather suddenly feeling the energy drain of opening an interdimensional portal and the fact that he’s been up a long, long time.

“Yeah, it kind of is. Look, I wasn’t kidding; it’ll be easier to show you. Just… when you get home, make sure you leave your gun in the car, okay? We don’t need any ricochet in the house; I don’t think insurance covers that kind of thing.” He’s only half-joking. He can only imagine what seeing Helena, John, Courtney, and Laura are going to do to his dad.

“You’re not making your case, kid. Just…” Then, there’s a pause, and he can see in his head the expression that his dad is wearing: consternated confusion, likely with a hint of annoyance in the way the vein at his temple is probably pulsing. “Wait, what are you doing at the library this late?”

“Just send Parrish, dad. I’ll see you when you get home,” he insists, biting his lip as he looks around the group.

“Stiles—“ his dad starts, but he cuts the man off by hanging up. He knows he’s going to be in deep shit for doing it, but it’s the only thing he can think of to do at this point.

Seeing is totally believing in this case. And this… This just got a whole lot more complicated.

*=*-*=*

They end up leaving Kara to watch over Donovan until Parrish can pick Donovan up.

_“She’s the only one who doesn’t have a doppelganger, here. At least, that we’ve met. So, she’s the only one who could conceivably hold Donovan and not get looked at too weirdly. Plus, she can help make sure that Parrish is okay with Donovan.”_

It’d seemed like a sure-fire way of handling things at the time. But he isn’t so sure, now; hiding away in his room as he is, ignoring the muffled voices coming from downstairs. He’ll be able to hear when his dad comes in, his bedroom door open, but he’d be lying if he didn’t say he wasn’t hiding up here. Especially surrounded by doppelgangers and superheroes; it was strange to see them in his house, to see so many familiar faces in places that just… didn’t _belong_. Erica and Boyd had never been in his house, and he can’t remember the last time Derek had been in his room.

Which.

“ _Jesus_ , dude! I thought you were supposed to make noise when you used your super speed!” he accuses Clark, fisting his t-shirt over his heart, trying to calm down from being so thoroughly startled.

“I didn’t,” Clark muses, raising both eyebrows. Only to furrow them a moment later, concern clear and open in his face, once again reminding him of all reasons that Clark _isn’t_ like Derek. “You okay?”

For a moment, he contemplates lying. Contemplates giving a bullshit answer to the Man of Steel. But it’s like he’d told Clark on the DEO rooftop last night; the man was enough like Derek to make it too easy to talk to him, to open up, and different enough that his words didn’t hold the acidic edge that he sometimes found with talking to Derek.

“No. Not really. I just… You have to understand, save for Derek and Kira… Everyone else—John, Courtney, Helena, Laura—they all look like _dead people_. People I was _close_ to. Well, except for Laura. I never got to know Laura, here, before her uncle tore her in half.” Being bluntly honest was something that he could do, too, with Clark.

“And seeing them all here, in your house, has to be blowing your mind,” Clark sighs, understanding and sympathy clear.

“That’s one way to put it, yeah,” he agrees with a shrug. “I just. I don’t know how to explain to my friends, here, why _dead people_ are suddenly walking around.”

“You can start by trying to explain it to your dad,” Laura’s voice tells him, solemn and sudden in the doorway. “He’s downstairs, freaking out.”

Startled at her words, he listens, and it’s the _lack_ of voices that is worrying. Cursing under his breath, he rushes past Clark and Laura, down the stairs and into the living room where Kara and Zatanna are standing between his father and the three who he was just talking about. His dad is pale, shell-shocked, definitely looking like he’s about to fall over.

One problem at a time. Okay. Kara was here, which meant—

“Parrish get Donovan okay?” he asks, slow and careful as he steps off the last step, Laura and Clark right behind him but far slower.

“Yeah. I made sure he got to the station okay; I just barely beat your dad here,” Kara explains with a thin little smile, clearly feeling the pressure in the room. The tension that was almost a physical, palpable being all its own.

“Stiles, what’s going on here?” His dad’s voice is even, almost dangerously so, for all that he doesn’t move a single muscle.

“I told you, dad. It’d be easier to show than to explain it over the phone,” he sighs in return, rubbing at his face with long fingers that are starting to shake, whether from the situation or from crashing after doing a significant amount of magick in one day, he doesn’t know. “I… I’d like to introduce you to a good chunk of what will one day be the Justice League.”

“This isn’t funny, Stiles,” his dad grunts, the lines in his face deep with annoyance.

“No, sir, it’s not,” John agrees, straightening. “I— _we_ all understand that we look like people who, according to Stiles, are dead here. There’s not much we can do about that. But… Look, let’s just… I’m John Stewart.” He gently pushes past Kara and Zatanna to offer his hand to the sheriff, solemn as ever.

The man shakes it slowly, eyes intent on the larger man’s face before John is turning and motioning to the rest of the group.

“The brunette in the corner Helena Bertinelli—“ Helena gives a short wave of her hand, her shoulders tense, “—the short haired blonde is Courtney Whitmore—“ Courtney gives only a curt nod in acknowledgement, arms crossed over her chest as she watches in terse silence, “—the Japanese woman is Zatanna Zatara—“ Zatanna gives an encouraging smile and a wave of her own, far more at ease than anyone else in the room, “—longer blonde is Kara Danvers—“ Kara’s thin smile doesn’t get much wider, but she does relax a little at the introduction, “—the brunette lady on the stairs is Laura Hale—“ and that, of course, gets a reaction; a sharp inhale, wide eyes, and a deep stare, but Laura takes it in stride, giving the sheriff a silent nod of acknowledgement, “—and, lastly, just behind Stiles is Clark Kent.”

That gets the second reaction; a snort, disbelieving, though it looks like his dad is trying to still process Laura. Then, of course, his eyes actually settle on Clark, who stares right back; he still has yet to put on his glasses, which makes him look even more like Derek.

“What happened, Stiles? _How_ did this happen?” his dad asks, slowly looking over the room again. Assessing, taking in possible threats, ever the officer of the law.

“Magick,” is his answer, the words a tired sigh as he moves further into the room. It allows Clark to come in, and for Laura to come off the stairs. The woman immediately goes to stand beside Helena, her stance open and easy, as non-threatening as she can be, for the moment.

“Magick.” The word is more question than statement, and he can see his dad desperately trying to add this to the list of weird shit that is supposed to be normal in this god forsaken town. “What, you mean like Jennifer Blake?”

“ _God_ , no. No, this… It was an accident, actually,” he admits, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I… Donovan attacked me. At the school, I mean. Something’s been done to him, like with Tracy; he… he had teeth in his _hand_ , dad. And I ran from him, into the school, and I just. I turned a corner and I… I wished really, really hard not to be there anymore.”

“I found him in a back alleyway in Metropolis,” Clark chimes in, nodding at him, that silent ‘got your back’ bob that has him smiling a little and nodding in return. “I had no idea who he was, or where he was from, so I took him to National City, to the DEO.”

“He was unconscious for a day or so, and when he woke up, we started figuring out how to get him home,” Kara takes up the explanation, her eyes flickering from his dad to him, that familiar sad smile on her face. He wants to flinch away from it, wants to curl into himself. He’s come so far from when he’d yelled at her, when he’d been so _angry_ with her.

“Clark came and got me when it was figured out that it had been done with magick. Once I assessed the situation, I trained him,” Zatanna adds, stuffing her hands in her jeans, looking about as tired as he feels.

“We all met him while he was staying at the DEO, training with Zatanna. When we learned he was coming back here, and after some of the comments he’d made and some of the stories he’s told, we… we wanted to come back with him, and help,” Laura takes her turn, motioning to herself and the other three doppelgangers who look like dead people.

“I didn’t even know they were coming,” he sighs, rubbing at his face again. Trying to will some life into himself. But he’s unsurprisingly fading fast; he’s going to need food and coffee soon, if he wants to continue to stay awake.

“He was at the DEO for two months, though; when he created the portal, he must have willed it, even subconsciously, to take him back to the moment he left so that he wouldn’t be missed,” Zatanna adds, her pride clear for all in the room.

“We really are here to help, Sheriff,” Helena speaks up for the first time, and the sound of her voice has the sheriff cringing. She looks ashamed, and something else; something he can’t quite put his finger on. It isn’t the first time he’s seen that look. It’s been common in the time that he’s come to know her, to know _all_ of them. Well, at least the four that he’s closest with. That he saw at least once a day, eating meals and passing the time with.

“Alright.” The man in question looks like he wants to say something, wants to add in some words of chastisement. But he can’t get them out before the opening to _Bad Moon Rising_ echoes in the living room. Everyone looks mildly startled, before his dad gives him this _look_. He can’t even be sorry, though, because it’s _Scott_ , okay? 

“Hey, man,” he answers, grinning at the others, because he’s talked about Scott enough that at least a few of them know who he is. But he doesn’t let them overhear his conversation; it’s been two months, at least to him, since he last talked to his best friend. There has to be a reason that he’s calling this late. So he takes the stairs two at a time, leaving the group and his dad behind to hear what his friend has to say.

*=*-*=*

There is a beat of silence after Stiles has gone upstairs in which he takes the time to study the people his son has brought into their house. At first glance, it was all of the people that his son had become friends with and lost: Alison Argent, Vernon Boyd, Erica Reyes, even _Derek Hale_. At first glance, the surface was all that there was to see.

But he wasn’t just a sheriff because he wore a shiny badge on his shirt. He had earned that star through hard work and making sure that people believed in his abilities to investigate crime and get answers. So when he looks at the group a second, and then even a _third_ time, he _sees_. He sees beyond the glasses to the sure way that Clark holds himself, though hunched to make himself look shorter; a diversion tactic that Derek _never_ would have employed. Then Helena, whose poise could be mistaken for hours of work with the bow, but she, Courtney, and John all stand like soldiers; well trained, at ease soldiers.

But he sees other things in the four that look like the dead; Laura is shifty, nervous. Won’t look him in the eye, is _hiding_ something. Courtney has her head tilted in a familiar sign he’s come to learn with werewolves means listening to things they shouldn’t be listening to. Helena, too, won’t quite look him in the eye; but there is guilt, fear, _hurt_ lingering in her face that has his eyes narrowing, his arms crossing. Taking in what his son must be _blind_ if he hadn’t seen.

“So now that my son isn’t here, tell me,” he demands, not looking at the pretty blonde who keeps adjusting her glasses or the young-looking hunched man or even the flat-looking young woman who looks kind of like she’s about to drop. No, he’s talking to the dead, here, because he wants answers.

“Sheriff—“ Laura starts, hands raised in what he supposes is probably going to be supplication for the protest that is forming. But he cuts her off with a sharp glare.

He’s learned a lot about what happens in his town over the past year. He’s seen more than his fair share of close calls as a result of that knowledge, least of which being nearly losing his son to a dark spirit that had taken over his teenage body. A being of chaos, it had tried to tear them, tear _Stiles_ , apart.

He doesn’t trust anyone with his son so easily, anymore. Especially when they’re wearing faces that should be, _are_ , six feet under.

“Look, I don’t give a crap what you do. But I will not let you hurt my son,” he informs them, flatly. Making it perfectly clear that he _will_ find a way to bring them to justice if they hurt Stiles. His son has been through _too much_ , dammit.

“He doesn’t know,” Courtney sighs, looking sad and guilty. And the three who aren’t wearing dead faces all glance at her, confusion clear on their faces. But the other four? The other four look resigned, as though they’ve known it was coming to this moment all along.

“We don’t _want_ him to know, not yet,” John agrees at his elbow, soft and tired-sounding.

“Know _what_?” And it isn’t _him_ who demands that answer, but the young woman who looks like Kira, who looks like a good wind could knock her over right now. Who looks wrung out and like she’s about to start spitting daggers, herself.

“I remember. I mean. I remember my parents dying in a car accident when I was five; I remember going to live with my aunt in San Francisco,” Laura explains, soft and thoughtful. She hesitates, looking right at him. Judging him, silent and heavy, before continuing. “But I also remember… I remember getting pulled out of my college English class at 7PM by one Sheriff Stilinski because my family had just been burned alive by Kate Argent for being werewolves.”

And that. Okay. That was _not_ what he’d been expecting. He stares at her, because of _course_ he remembers that day; remembers the awful scene of the fire, the smell of the burnt wood and flesh that sometimes haunts him. Remembers the fear and desperation in young Laura Hale’s face as she takes custody of her 16-year-old little brother, as she handles what no child should have to.

Remembers the frozen look of fear on her stiff, waxy-looking face.

There is a beat, a silent conference before Helena steps forward.

“I remember watching my family be murdered when I was eight years old. I remember spending most of my life angry at what had been done to me. But I remember meeting Scott, and Stiles. I remember Lydia. I remember the Kanima, the Alpha pack, the Darach. I remember the nogitsune. It’s a mess in my head a bunch of the time, but like the others, I deal with it. I get by with a balance of Alison Argent and Helena Bertinelli. Because I am both, and I am _neither_.” Her explanation seems to make sense to the other three who share her fate, but the three who had no idea what the _hell_ she was talking about are just as confused as he is. It’s gratifying, and worrying all at the same time.

“ _How_?” He has to ask, even if none of them know the answer. And, going off their looks, they _don’t_. At all. Can’t even _begin_ to fathom the hows and whys of the whole mess.

“Magick,” is what Zatanna finally grunts, giving up on standing and flopping tiredly onto the couch. “It… I don’t know _how_ , or why, but there it is.”

“It’s probably the same connection between this Earth and the other that made it possible for Stiles to escape there,” Laura points out, rolling her shoulders in a tired shrug. All of them seem to be deflated, though Kara and Clark don’t look any worse for wear.

He isn’t going to ask how or why with that one. He’s going to smile and nod and pretend it makes sense before he gives himself an ulcer.

“But. But we can’t tell Stiles. Not yet,” Courtney speaks up, then, eager and scared. Something in her eyes tells him she remembers what happened to Erica, remembered how she died. And that…

He looks at all of them, the haunted look that this town seems to give people. And rather suddenly, he wants to lock them in. Wants to track Melissa down, invite her over for nightmare watch like they’d had with boys after Claudia died, after Rafael left, and just try to take care of these young people who seem intent on taking everyone else’s problems without looking after themselves.

His son tends to do that, too. It scares him half to death, most of the time. He can see why, though, they’ve all banded together to try and protect him; especially if some of them _knew_.

“What you tell him and when is up to you. But you’re going to have to tell him before he finds out,” he tells them, intending to keep his tone gentle, but finding that using his ‘Sheriff voice’ is automatic when dealing in these situations. It helps, too, that he hasn’t even had time to change into anything resembling normal clothing. “Because he will find out. And when he does… If you don’t tell him first, he will _never_ forgive you.”

The silence hangs in the living room, heavy and choking, with the undercurrent of _something_ he can’t quite put his finger on. But it’s not just affecting, or being noticed by, him. He can see it in the faces of Zatanna, of Clark, and of Kara. The three of them look as out of sorts as he feels, and he wants to pat them on the head and send them to their room, wants to _father_ them. It’s bizarre, but not the first time that Stiles has brought home someone who needs that, who needs the connection of another human being with a steady head on their shoulders, that he took under his wing to help along. But somehow he doesn’t think this is going to end the way things seems to be going with Malia.

It is, of course, Stiles who breaks the silence, walking slowly down the stairs with his phone in his hand, no longer on the call with Scott. His brow is furrowed, a frown on his face, looking so very _tired_ that it makes him ache down into his bones for his son.

“What did Scott want?” he asks, because he knows that that look can really only mean one thing in this god-forsaken town.

“The bodies. Tracy and Lucas’s, I mean; they were taken,” Stiles tells him, frowning in thought, already trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

“Wait, bodies? There are… bodies?” Kara asks, her expression morphing into something more alert that makes the glasses entirely useless.

“Two of them, yeah. Both were killed by these masked creeps. We’re calling them chimeras because they weren’t your run of the mill supernatural creatures; they seem to be _mixed_ ,” Stiles explains, more for him than the others. But they all share in confusion, much to his son’s annoyance, though it’s not something that can exactly be _helped_. He’s been at this for almost a year now, but even _he_ can’t parse out the particulars most of the time.

“Was Scott able to get anything from the clinic?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, thinking himself. He can’t imagine who would want to take the bodies of teenagers, but there it was.

“No. He said that he and Kira are going to continue to look for clues, but I honestly don’t think he’s going to find anything tonight,” Stiles admits with an annoyed frown, his long fingers clenching around his phone.

He definitely understands the frustration; he hates being side-lined, hates not being able to help, to offer answers, not even sure where to start a proper investigation. It’s a major crime, obviously, stealing a body. Not even mentioning the implications of what the bodies could be used for. Especially given the supernatural element in all of this.

“In which case, we should probably call it a night, then,” he sighs, giving his son a long look. “Especially since _you_ have school tomorrow.” The surprise on Stiles’s face has him frowning, fully ready to argue with his son.

“I… Dad, I think I’m not going to school tomorrow,” the teenager tells him, brow furrowing. Before he can argue the thought, Stiles is explaining, face twisted, “I mean. It’s been two months. At least, for me; I spent two months training to get home, not even _thinking_ about school. I need at least a day to go over my work to figure out what the hell is going on in my classes.”

He can’t help but sigh, knowing that at least right now he isn’t going to win the argument. And given how the night has gone, he can’t actually bring himself to argue. So much has happened in the span of just an hour, he feels like he is far more than just out of his depth. He feels almost as though he’s back last winter; last winter, when everything was broken and drawn taut, as though Stiles has just started having nightmares, as though this was something _new_ and _unknown_.

But, honestly, this was just more of the same; same shit, different day. And he hates that his son is stuck in the middle of all this, _again_. Though, perhaps _still_ would be a better adjective to describe Stiles’s involvement.

“Alright,” he finally sighs, the breath escaping him heavier than the last. He moves forward and pulls his son into a tight hug. The teenager goes stiff for just a second, surprise in every single one of the boy’s muscles, before Stiles _melts_ against him. His heart would break for his kid if it wasn’t already shattered in a million little pieces.

“Alright, let’s all get some sleep. We’ll figure this all out in the morning,” he orders the others, nudging at his son after a moment more of holding onto him. Stiles seems just as reluctant to let him go, and it would be nice if it didn’t tell him just how far down his son has fallen. “Go and get the spare sleeping bags and what-not out of the closet. Someone can take the couch, one can sleep in your room on the trundle, and if the girls don’t mind sharing the guest room, the bed should be big enough for three of you, and the last two can take the blow up mattress.”

The group glances around each other for a moment before Stiles gets moving, scrambling to find the sleeping arrangements for everyone. He helps set everyone up, more than a little amused when the two cousins fight over who gets to blow up the mattress. And, before he can protest with the fact that there’s an electric air compressor, Clark wins out and proceeds to blow the damn thing up in one long breath, leaving Kara to stick her tongue out at him.

Once he’s sure that everyone is bunked down—stopping in Stiles’s doorway to watch as the teenager uselessly hits the superhero on the trundle pulled from beneath his bed with a pillow, laughing the whole time, before shaking his head and moving on—he moves on to his own bed, knowing that tomorrow was going to be an excruciatingly long day.

And that was even _before_ he dealt with Donovan.

_Fuck_.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this took so goddamn long to post; I actually meant to get it up for Christmas, but since I was knitting my family's presents, thaaaaat didn't happen. And then I was going to get them up two days ago and, yeah. But here it is; part 8 will be up shortly, probably within the next couple of days. I will be replying to comments within the next few hours. <3 Thank you all for keeping an eye out for this series.
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://pinkybitesu.tumblr.com).


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